Cogito, ergo sum
by CloudyDream
Summary: Bruce wakes up in a hospital bed with no memories, and has to put back together the missing puzzle pieces. Post BB, featuring the obligatory amnesia, borderline sociopathy, some character developement and a road to self discovery. Also some action, sooner or later. Check it out! UNDERGOING REWRITE, ON TEMPORARY HIATUS
1. Awakenings

A/N: As it says in the description. Amnesia fic – Bruce gets hit in the head. Set shortly after between BB. The amnesia - version of Bruce is from the years before Butham, and he's totally not fine. The story is kind of a stylistic experiment, I'm trying up writing in the second person. Let me know what you think!

* * *

_To live is to be slowly born.  
- Antoine de Saint-Expery_

* * *

**One: ****Awakenings**  


**November 17th, 2005_  
_**

_The mind is everything.  
What you think, you become.  
- Buddha_

* * *

You fall asleep staring at the clouded night sky, and wake up to a white painted ceiling.

In between, pain. Red lashings and bright aches and an annoying noise nothing else. The hunger is still there, you notice, but it's different. It's more like immediate need than the dull, familiar empty feeling you've had since that Dutch ship captain left you somewhere in Bangladesh after that stupid drunken night.  
You swore you'd never drink a drop of alcohol after that night. You never had enough money to get tempted, so it's all right.

The ceiling is really, really white, like it has been repainted recently. It reminds you of childhood, and visiting your father at the hospital before it all went to hell. It's a high ceiling, and it probably means a big room. Some part of you – the fighting part, the part that belongs to the rich kid and the grown man alike – wants to know where you are. What is happening, what has happened, why it hurts.

Some other part it's just too tired and sore to give a damn, and that part is winning.

The ceiling is so damn white and clean that is painful too look at it.  
You close your eyes and sleep.

* * *

The noise still goes on and on and on, and it wakes you.

Or maybe you've slept so much you can't take it anymore, because when you stop moving you get tired and you get sick. You've seen this happening before, to that kid in Sudan. Stupid kid.

The annoying keeps beeping, and it's a fucking monitor, and that fighting part of you really wants to know who – and how – managed to get him in a place with a monitor and a IV thingy going into your arm. Your right arm, you notice. The left is bandaged, or maybe it's a cast.

You have a horrible feeling in your gut that maybe is the guys from Doctor Without Borders, and you wonder what the hell you could have done to land yourself in a bed. You hope you didn't join some kind of guerrilla group or anything, but all you know for sure is that you're in a real bed and it's been to fucking long.

And then someone talks.

It feels like a nail in your head, even though it's a fairly pleasant voice. It's got a cadence you recognize, somehow. If only it wasn't so painful, you could listen to it all day long.

"Xagga."

That's pretty much one of the twenty words you managed to pick up, because it sounded funny. The person talking – a man, you think – is definitely saying something, but you don't understand the words. The voice is reassuring, though, and it's fine.

"Xagga."

Gonna have to answer that, sooner or later.

"How are you feeling?" You manage to understand the word now, and it's great. You can barely remember last time someone asked how you're feeling. That French prostitute, probably, a few years ago, the very same reason why you've sworn never to drink ever again. But she didn't care and you knew it, and the guy here sounds like he does, a little. It's much better this way.

"'mee." Why wouldn't the monitor just _shut up_?

The guy speaks again, slowly this time. "How are you feeling?"

You want to tell him you've already answer but you can't because you don't know the words – and that's when you realize the guy's speaking English, and you feel suddenly excited and scared and not so tired anymore.

"Where am I?" The words are rusty on your tongue, coming out somewhat awkward. It's been a few months since you last spoke your language.

You managed to go on with some French, or Italian, or whatever it was that language that a few people understood – after all, those Latin-ish languages are all the same. You speak slowly, you're fine. No one speaks English in the slums here.  
More often than not, no one talks to him at all.

"Where am I?" You say it again, and the guy – the doctor, it _has_ to be DWB – nods. He's white, you notice. You want to sit on the bad, but your shoulder hurts like hell when you move.

"At the hospital," he's still speaking slowly, softly. "You hit your head."

_No shit_, you think. _It hurts._

"Can you tell me," that calm voice is starting to make you angry, you want answers _now_. "your name."

"Patterson. Thomas Patterson."

* * *

The doctor guy blinks a couple of times and you think that's curios, because he's supposed to be the calm one.

"Patterson." He repeats, surprised, as if to make sue he's got that right. You wonder if someone searched you for documents when you came in – not that you have any, of course – and you really, really want to know what the hell you've done to get here.

The doctor looks like he's got a new strategy, and he speaks again. "Can you tell me your parents' names, Mr… _Patterson_?"

You can, but you won't. And there's something insulting in the way the doctor says your name, like he's judging you. Calling you a liar. You're not – that's the name you've been using for the past few years – and it's not like he has a way to know whether you're saying the truth or not.

"Why are you asking me these questions?" You should be the one asking questions. "And who the fuck are you, anyway?"

And that was a lot of words. Your throat hurts too, you suddenly realize. Like sandpaper.

The doctor looks a little startled, but not overly so. "I am Doctor Davies. And you hit your head pretty bad, I need to check for any possible… effect. It's standard procedure."

"I _know_ that." Everyone does. "But you have no way to check my answers, you're just wasting your time." Again, too many words. You swallow, slowly.

Davies nods in agreement. "In that case, can you tell me where are you from?"

Fair enough. The guy has no accent to speak of, just that calm drawl, but he's probably recognized your American accent. "United States. East Coast."

He look as though he's expecting more. "Anything more precise?"

You feel like shrugging, but you don't. "No way for you to check."

Something goes through Davies's eyes, a flash of understanding. "Do you know who the President is?"

You laugh at that, a real laugh. You didn't even know they _had_a president here. Or maybe he means the American one?

"No idea, Doctor."

He nods briefly, and you're sure he believes you, this time.

"The date?"

"I don't know. March."

He nods again, almost leaning toward your bed.

"Year?"

"Oh One."

The very instant the words leave your mouth you know what exactly he asked, and why, and what an head injury could mean.  
And you only need a look at the Doctor to know that your answer is wrong.

"Oh, _fuck_."

* * *

"How long?"

Davies actually looks surprised that you have realized the situation, even if it took you forever. In another situation, you might feel insulted.  
Today, you just want answers.

"Doctor, how many years?" It has to be years, that's the thing you got wrong. You don't want to guess.

He falters a little before speaking. "About five."

_Oh. _

Well, that's not overly much. But in some corner of your mind you know how much five years can change a man, age him, especially living the way you did, and you feel a surge of anger.

And then you remember that you're in a hospital with a white, English-speaking doctor, and you both fear and anticipate the next question.

"Where am I."

It's not really a question. Just a desperate need to know. Australia, you almost pray in your mind. Australia is nice, and far away from the place you've escaped from.

"Where am I, Doctor?"

He hesitates again, and you_ just know_ you're not going to like the answer. You already know the answer.

"Gotham." It's just a soft spoken word.

And just like that, you feel trapped.

You breath out slowly, sink in the bed, lay back your head on the pillows.  
Because it's pillows, more than one, and you know that the same way you know you're in a single room at Gotham General, or maybe it's some fancy private clinic.  
You feel cheated and let down in ways you can't describe, pulled back to the only place in the world you didn't want to go back to, no _yet_, and not even knowing how, or _why_.

"Then I suppose there's no need to ask for my name, right?" The question comes out a bitter snarl, more violent then you expected it to be, but you realize that's exactly how you feel.

"Standard question." You're back staring at the ceiling and can't see his face, but he sounds careful, almost apologizing.  
"You should rest, Mr. Wayne."

That's not who you are. Not anymore, not yet once again. You don't know who you are, you went out in the world to find yourself, and whatever answer you've found has been taken away from you, and you don't even know how.  
You're back on square one.

There's no sound of footsteps, though. Davies still hasn't left, and you can _feel _him staring at you.

"Mr. Wayne?"

"Please don't call me that."

Because you're not. You're a nameless man who fell asleep one night in a street in Muqdisho, half-starved, looking at the clouds and wondering where to go next.  
And know that's gone, too.

* * *

It's been almost an hour since you woke up for the second time, and you are bored out of your mind.

You're feeling better, now, well enough to think. Your head doesn't hurt as much as it used to – the shoulder is the problem. A nurse has come into the room a couple of times and told you that yes, your homer bone is fractured.

She said it was a car accident, a messy fracture, splinters of glass in your arm, head injury. You can't even remember the last time you drove a car, and it's a strange kind funny. Maybe this is what they call dark humor.  
The nurse is blonde and green-eyed and around you age – well, five years younger than you, now – and she's actually flirting with you. You almost laugh out loud at the sheer absurdity of it.

But it's nice to have her in the room, because when she leaves you start thinking. And you don't really want to.

There's the obvious elephant in the room – how you got back home, when, what happened since, and you know you have no clue. Then there are other, not so immediate issues you'd rather ignore. There's Alfred for one, and you feel ashamed thinking about him. Then there's Rachel, and her parting words are still burning somewhere in the back of your mind.

And then there's the fact that you've no idea of what you're doing here, no idea of what you're gonna do from now on. You feel empty and vain, and you almost wished you were back sleeping on the street. The man you used to be didn't have time to feel emptiness, concerned as he was with finding food to eat and a place to sleep.  
You feel as though the last years of your life were meaningless, and it hurts more than anything else.

It's just you, the beeping monitor and your dark thoughts until Davies comes back, coming close enough that you can see the hesitant look on his face.

"Well, Mr. Wayne," you glare at him, half-heartily. He probably thinks you're nuts, not wanting to hear your own name. "I trust you're feeling better. Cassie's telling me you asked about the accident."

"Yes."

"A man in a truck didn't see a red light. Your driver tried to avoid him, but it was too late."

_Your driver_, of course. Some part of you knows it's to be expected, but you still can't completely relate the life of the rich kid to the man you're now. This feels even more unreal than being in a building with air conditioning.

"Is the driver fine?" You really, really hope it wasn't Alfred driving. You automatically assume Alfred's still around, of course, because this is just the way things are. The sky is blue, the sea tastes salty, and Alfred will always be looking out for you.

Davies doesn't look like he's expected the question – he's all but startled. You're really starting to find him annoying. "Mr. Miller is all right, Mr. Wayne. He was on the other side of the car."

_Good. _

"What's today's date?"

"November seventeenth." And then, softly. "Twenty-oh-five."

November seventeenth, twenty-oh-five. That's what, four years and a half? You start counting the days in your mind. That's four years, eight months. You breathe, slowly. Okay.

"When can I be discharged?" You need to go out, to see it with your eyes. The beautiful, dirty city you haven't seen in years. The place that gave your family wealth and power and took blood in exchange.  
It hits you that you're alone, and it's odd. After all, you were every bit as alone in Africa as you are here, and it didn't matter much back then. You used to welcome solitude, and now it's overwhelming.

You have to ask it.

"Is there anyone I can call, an emergency contact?"

It hurts you to say it out loud, to admit just how lost you feel. It's pathetic, the way you're hanging on this man's every word, the power he has on you in this moment.  
He's smart enough to understand the subtext, what you're really asking. And it's not _do I have an emergency contact_. It's, _do I have a life? Friend, a girlfriend, anyone? Does anyone in this world care if I live or die?_

You've never cared for those things, and now you do. It's a whole new game, a new life, a new everything with rules you don't know yet.  
Strange how vulnerable losing your memory makes you feel.

The doctor has a look of understanding on his face, and the kid you used to be might have feel insulted. But you're old enough, wise enough to ignore your pride, to understand the difference between sympathy and pity; and you are glad to see that look on his face.

"In a few hours, Mr. Wayne. You did it your head quite hard, after all. And even after you're discharged, try to be careful – not sleeping more than three hours at the time, call a doctor if you have nausea or numbness in your limbs." He stops for a seconds, and look you straight in the eye. "And don't drink alcohol."

_Sure. _

He looks as if he's expecting some kind of answer, so you tell him. "No problem, Doctor. I don't drink."

He laughs, a heartily, good-natured laugh. "I mean it. No alcohol."

And before you can ask him what the hell he's talking about, before any kind of shadowy suspicion starts crawling in your mind, he speaks again.

"You do have a couple of visitors, Mr. Wayne. They have been here for a while of hours and I've already informed them of your, uh, situation. One Mr. Pennyworth told me that, well, he would wait a while for you to 'get accustomed to your surroundings'."

The way he says that last part tells you that he doesn't agree with Alfred's decision to wait a little before barging in, and it only tells you things you already knew. Nominally, that Alfred is invaluable and that this man is a idiot, no matter how understanding he is.

"And who is the other visitor?" You hope you already know the answer.

"The lady from the D.A. Office." You nod, a curious feeling in your guts. "I think she's left now though – said she had to go back to work, and she will visit later."

You don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed because she's not here. You wonder how you stand, what you are to each other, and you settle on avoiding the problem. Again.

"Could you please tell Alfred, I mean, Mr. Pennyworth, that I'm, uh, _accustomed to my surroundings_, please?"

* * *

When he walks into the room you almost can't believe your eyes.

He's exactly how you remembered. Well, not exactly – he's older and completely gray now – but the face is the same, and he's looking at you with a smile on his face and concern in his narrowed eyes.

"It's good to see you." And you mean it. It's genuinely good to see his face, and you feel a surge of cowardly relief knowing that, whatever might have happened when you got back (how?) , whatever it is you can't remember.  
There's probably been some kind of negative reaction, hidden behind Alfred always so proper manners. Maybe an inkling of disappointment in his eyes, nothing too lasting, you're sure, but you're glad you avoided it.

Some of this relief must have showed on your face, because there's a thoughtful look on Alfred's face now. And some surprise, too, as if he weren't expecting you to show any emotion.

"It's good to see you too, Master Bruce." he says, and there's definitely some surprise in his voice. And a bit or something else – regret, maybe. You don't care to know.

"How do you feel? Doctor Davies told me of… your memory loss."

You half-nod, half-shock your head. "Post traumatic, retrograde amnesia." It's not really a question – you've watched enough television and read enough books to know what it is. "I can't remember anything form the last, uh, four years and a half."

Alfred brings a chair next to your bed and sits down. "Nothing at all?"

You shock your head again.

And then, the question. "When did I come back?" _Why?_

Alfred leans in closer. "About four months ago. You were in a Himalayan country last. From what I understood, I had been there for a while."

_Ah._ You wonder exactly why the hell you went back to that particular corner of the world – after leaving Khulna, you had no intention of coming back ever again.  
Once again you wonder exactly what is that you did that made you go back to Gotham. You've always known you were going to, of course – you felt pulled toward the city the way light might be attracted by a Black Hole – but the idea of _returning _has always been vague and undefined, somewhere in a distant future.

Only one way to know.

"Alfred?" your voice sounds like Doctor Davies's, all slow and soft. "Do you know if I found what I was looking for?" _A purpose_.

He smiles and nods. "I believe you did, Master Bruce. I believe you did."

* * *

You spend the next two hours talking about things you should already know.

Alfred tells you how what's going on in the city, filling you in on some gossip on people, business, to-go events, and you realize you couldn't care less. He probably realizes that too, but doesn't say anything, moving on to tell you about the situation at Wayne Enterprises, that you've been declared dead and got back the company and gave Lucius Fox the top job.  
Apparently you are friends, and Alfred says that Fox will probably be stopping by tomorrow to see how you're feeling.

"At the manor?" you ask.

Something crosses Alfred's eyes as he shocks his head. "In the city."

You seem to be living in a hotel penthouse the high-end of the city, and you wonder how can Alfredy be fine with it.  
There's something he's not telling you, and you don't press him.

He tells you you've briefly worked in the Applied Science division at WE, and you wonder why. It does certainly sound fascinating, but you probably would be better qualified for some other job. You briefly think back to you college years, how you were in a business major because it was the sensible thing to do, and a pre-med minor because people expected you to follow in your father's footstep and you just went along with it.

You remember being driven to the point of being obsessed, learning everything that seemed even vaguely interesting. You remember sleeping in class because you've been up all night reading other stuff, and planning on going to Business School because it was expected of you and easy enough to let you with a lot of free time to study other things. You remember coming back to Gotham six weeks into the school year and never going back, leaving the States altogether.

All in all, you think you'd probably do a better job somewhere else than Applied Science, and Alfred tells you that you no longer work there.  
It looks like you actually don't work at all, and it's puzzling. After spending years breaking your back for a little pocket change and trying not to starve, a corporate job sounds like a joke – albeit an incredibly boring one.

There has to be a reason why you have come back, and you just have to figure it out.

* * *

Doctor Davies comes back eventually, saying that you can leave the hospital , and reminds you again to be careful, just in case you forgot in the last two hours. No oversleeping, watching out for possible nausea or numbness, no drinking. He says that twice, no drinking, with that annoying laugh, and you feel really glad you're being discharged.

The blonde nurse, Cassie, is back to help you get out of bed, takes away the IV and you're left wondering what exactly that was for. Alfred steps out with Doctor Davies, after leaving you the change of clothes he's brought you – they're supposed to be casual, but all you can notice is that the shirt alone is worth more that you made in the last six months.  
_Is this what culture shock feels like?_

You manage to get dressed by yourself, and notice just how _healthy_ you are. Even tired and aching, your body is a perfect machine, and Cassie is doing her best not to stare while you put your pants on.  
All her pretense of being professional go to hell when she helps you with your shirt. She's behing you, helping with the cast, when you hear a sharp breath and turn back.

"What?"

She shocks her head and steps back, her cheeks flushing. "Nothing, Mr. Wayne. That was unprofessional of me, I just, well, didn't imagine…" She stops, looking down at her feet.

"What?" You're genuinely surprised.

She blushes again. "It's just, your scars. I wasn't expecting someone like you to have scars."

You wince, gingerly lifting your right arm to touch your left shoulder. And here it is, rougher skin, slightly embossed. There's another scar on your chest, you suddenly notice, two inches under your right collarbone. And another one on your stomach that looks like a bullet wound.  
Maybe you really did join to a guerrilla group.

Cassie goes to call the doctor, who only needs a look to understand the situation.

"Ah," he says. "Cassie, could you please go tell Mr. Pennyworth we'll have another five minutes?"

She nods, leaving the room again, while you finish putting the shirt on and sit down on the bed.

Davies is wearing glasses now, you notice. He takes his time setting the lens on his nose and getting the chair Alfred was sit on, before finally speaking.

"If I may," he measures his words, carefully, "which country did Thomas Patterson live in?"

Of course he was going to ask. Well, it isn't that big of a deal, naming the country, as long as he doesn't start asking other, more personal, questions.

"Here and there." You shrug – or try to – before adding. "Last I remember, Somalia."

He looks as though he's trying to solve a puzzle, and you shrug again. "I really can't tell you about the scars, though."  
Not when you don't know either. Maybe you told something to Alfred, something he can explain.

"I wasn't expecting you to." The soft voice, again. "It's just, Mr. Wayne, your back looks like someone stabbed you a half dozen times. I didn't really get that good of a look, but you can imagine how surprised I was."

There are no questions, no guesses, but you can hear the curiosity in his voice.

"Not half as surprised as _I_ am now, Doctor."

Your voice is as quiet as his, final. He nods for the last time as you get out of the room, looking for Alfred.

You eventually find him chatting with a definitely-no-longer-shocked Cassie, who somehow shakes your hand and somehow manages to give you what you suppose is her phone number. You look around as you get out of the hospital, following Alfred to a silver car you don't remember having bought, ignoring a photographer who talks you as if she's expecting you to actually stop and answer her questions.

It still feels like a dream, somehow, like all this is happening to someone else, the kid you used to be, while the real you sleeps in some ditch wearing filthy clothes.  
You've spent all this time running and trying to escape the shadow of this place, and here you are, looking out of the window and the city flies by, every bit as magnificent and hopeless as you remembered it, and it is _home_.


	2. Two

A/N: The rest of the story is being rewritten. Work in progress!

Thanks for sticking around.


End file.
